


Right To Know

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Peter finds out about his dad, Prompt Fic, Yondu gets a punch that he probably mostly deserves, family stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pompt taken from the livejournal kink meme: A couple of months after the movie, Peter’s out at some bar and he runs into a Ravager, who lets slip that Yondu had originally been hired by Peter’s father to bring Peter to him. Next thing Yondu knows, his door’s being knocked down and he’s being thrown against the wall by a pissed off Peter, who demands to know everything Yondu knows about Peter’s father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right To Know

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt fic from kinkmeme - http://guardian-kink.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=1603495#t1603495**
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> **A couple of months after the movie, Peter’s out at some bar and he runs into a Ravager, who lets slip that Yondu had originally been hired by Peter’s father to bring Peter to him. Next thing Yondu knows, his door’s being knocked down and he’s being thrown against the wall by a pissed off Peter, who demands to know everything Yondu knows about Peter’s father.**
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> ****  
> **Cw: mentions of physical and emotional child abuse (i.e., crappy Ravager parenting. Yondu might’ve been better than Peter’s actual pop, but he wasn’t exactly an exemplar father-figure.)**

Something good? Rescuing that merchant’s bombshell of a daughter from a band of skeevy bounty-hunters.

Something bad? Realising that said merchant was a high-profile slaver wanted for poaching off Terran planets, and that his daughter’s track record was just as dark and just as long. 

A bit of both? Using the daughter as a hostage to rob the merchant of every credit he had, then scuppering his ship and leaving him stranded on a dead moon for the Nova Corps to collect. All in all, another fine day for the Guardians of the Galaxy. 

Peter slumps on the counter with a yawn. “I’ll have four of your pan-galactic gargle-blasters, please,” he tells the bartender, tapping his wristpiece to buzz up the amount of credits due to be transferred into the establishment’s accounts. There’s a surly nod. Five tall pre-prepared, plastic-topped flutes rattle through the funnels above as his orders’re tapped in, skidding to a halt along the bartop. 

Peter grimaces. Ugh. He hates fast-drinks. But it’s cheap and quick, and when you’re buying for a thirsty team, those factors rank higher than taste. Or legality. Or hygienic preparation facilities. Peter nods his thanks. He transfers the credits, grabs one drink in each hand and sandwiches the other two between, and turns to dodge past the queue and return to his table – when a hand latches onto his elbow. Peter’s grateful that the glasses are capped off, otherwise he’d be sponging the smell of liquor out of his leathers for _weeks_. 

“Fuck,” he gripes. “Watch what you’re –“ 

He trails off. The hand is attached to an arm. The arm is clad in a leather, of a red the exact replica of the one he’s wearing. 

Ravager. 

Shit. He swallows, and turns to face the blue-spined creature. He thinks it’s snarling at him. Or it could be grinning. With that many teeth and that little lip, it’s impossible to tell. “Uh. Hi.” 

“S’you… yer Peter Quill,” the Ravager says. Slurs, really. Peter would put it down to the general lack of facial muscle – the skin around his mouth’s been peeled back far enough to let the jawbone gleam through; but as the Ravager’s potent breath attests, it’s not his first time in this queue. Drunk then. That could work in his advantage, when things turn nasty. 

Which things are liable to do. 

Claiming another identity is pointless – Peter sticks out like a blossoming turd in a bar populated primarily by Kronan and Skrulls, and really, this is his own damn fault for keeping his Ravager coat in the first place. (What? It earns him the occasional terror-borne discount, and red brings out the color of his eyes.) 

So he keeps his mouth shut and nods. The Ravager’s face lights up. He yanks Peter in – not to shank him on a knife, as Peter expects, but to squeeze him like a stressball and pound gleefully on between his shoulderblades. The drinks clink and jostle, crushed between their chests. 

“Ya saved Xandar, kiddo! I got me an auntie alive because of ya!” Peter blinks. This guy looks more closely related to a hedgehog than a Xandarian – but the Nova Empire has enough refugees stuffing their borders after the Kree war that anything’s possible; and anyway, who’s he to discriminate? 

So. Saved his beloved aunt. 

That’s sweet and all. Usually Peter’d be milking the hero-worship for all the units it was worth. But… If one Ravager’s here, the rest may very well be close behind. Keeping an eye on the perimeter, Peter extracts himself with a nervous smile. 

“And, uh, you hear about the _other_ thing I did on Xandar?” 

The Ravager, thank the Titans, makes a noise of confused dismissal. “I weren’t there, I weren’t there…” He peels away from the queue – the folks behind spill into his place – and starts stumbling Peter towards the booths at the bar’s far side, using him as a full-body crutch. “C’mon! Let’s catch up a bit, you n’me. Fuck.” He pokes Peter’s cheek. “I been workin’ solos so long I ain’t seen ya since you were learnin’ t’shave!” 

Peter doesn’t know him. But he knows his reputation among the crew – how it’s evolved from _that tiny Terran shit that the cap’n keeps around_ to _that big Terran shit who can get through any security system from here to Morag and who’ll shoot you if you steal his music-box._ He’s used to random Ravagers cuffing him round the ears or elbowing his ribs – sometimes they even do it affectionately. And so he bears the attention with an indulgent smile, and steers the guy towards the Guardians’ table, away from the dingy back-booths. Thankfully – for him – the Ravager doesn’t protest. He seems harmless. But Peter trusts Yondu approximately as far as Rocket could punt him, and while the big blue a-hole wouldn’t send an _assassin_ (Peter doesn’t think), he’s certainly not above ordering one of his own to drag Peter back kicking and screaming so he can wreak his vengeance in person. 

Peter gets distracted for a moment, wondering what exactly Yondu’s vengeance would be. Another beat-down in front of the crew? Teaching him _a lesson?_ Or perhaps he’ll finally lose patience and stick his arrow in his skull. 

They reach the table, miraculously, without Peter dropping drinks or Ravager. 

Drax huffs, meaty arms folded and looking for all the world like a mother scolding her child for missing curfew: “why have you brought this _scum pirate_ to our table?” 

“We’re scum-pirates too,” Peter reminds him. “Some of the time.” Drax’s glower does not abate. Neither does Gamora’s. Or Rocket’s. Groot, pot propped on the table so he can see, dances cheerfully from side to side. Peter points at him. “Thank you, Groot. See? He knows how to be polite.” He deposits his glasses, then drags up another chair before folding besides Gamora. She and Drax shuffle to make room, forcing Rocket to shift into closer proximity to the Ravager on the table’s other side. He huffs and gripes, whiskers quivering over sharp rodent teeth, and studiously picks at the terracotta of Groot’s new pot. Peter waves at his new friend, oblivious. “This is – uh, what’s your name?” 

“Raxxor,” chirps the spiny guy. Falls into his seat more than he sits on it, almost crashing into Rocket – who snarls and rears back. Peter grins, clapping Raxxor on the shoulder more to hold him upright than anything. 

“C’mon, say hi, everyone.” 

“Hi,” says Gamora. The word sounds unnatural in her mouth. She drowns it under a long draft of pan-galactic gargle-blaster. 

Drax nods to them both, expression flat. “Hello, Quill; scum-pirate.” 

Rocket grunts something that sounds suspiciously like ‘bite me’. 

It’s the best he’s getting. 

“So Raxxor,” says Peter, turning from his unsociable team. “What brings you out here, if you’re not collecting on my bounty? Uh. Not that Yondu’d have put another bounty on me. Nope. Haven’t given him any reason to do that.” 

The Ravager grabs the nearest drink – it’s Peter’s, to both his relief and dismay, because if it had been Rocket’s any hint at civility would’ve been eradicated there and then and this’d all descend into plasma-tinged chaos – and slurps messily at the frothing purple liquid. He has to clap a palm over his mouth to keep it from dribbling through his teeth. When he’s done he wipes the foam moustache on his sleeve, belches, and lists dangerously to the side. 

“Just out on a solo, y’know,” he says, as Peter nudges him vertical again. “Nothin’ fancy. Meant to be huntin’ down this gal and her papa who’ve been poachin’ Terrans – shame I lost ‘em. Nova’s got a decent wadge on their heads, and Cap’n don’t like poachers, so…” He trails off with a so-so wave, and another long gulp. The Guardians exchange glances. Decide as one not to comment. Eager to move the subject _away_ from a certain stolen bounty ( _another one_ ; shit, Yondu’s gonna be so pissed) Peter scoffs into his collar. 

“Yondu doesn’t like poachers? Like _that’s_ not hypocritical.” 

Raxxor’s blink clicks like a lizard’s. “What d’you mean?” 

“Isn’t is obvious?” Spreading his arms, Peter nods down at himself. Raxxor continues to look blank. “Terran? Sitting right in front of you? _Poached?”_

His careless bandying of the word wrenches a growl from Gamora and a low rumble from Drax. Even Rocket’s scratching at Groot’s pot increases in tempo. Peter winces. Just a little. So he hasn’t shared every gory detail of life with the Ravagers – mostly because there isn’t much _to_ share, beyond the basics one can garner from the presence of a red leather trench. Bit of smacking about. Bit of blood. Bit of underage sex with random hookers - all consensual, thank fuck - and a lot of underage alcohol; as well as the odd session up against the whipping-wall when he got caught joyriding before he’d been assigned the _Milano_. But the team have jumped to their own conclusions, as they’re wont to do. Peter suspects that some may be a little direr than necessary. 

But it’s not like he’s had the chance to _challenge_ them. Really, none of them are keen conversationists when it comes to their pasts – and while Peter’s hasn’t been the swankiest upbringing, he knows Gamora and Rocket have suffered exponentially worse. 

It’d be damn insensitive; that’s what it’d be. Bitching on about being smacked upside the head whenever he mouthed off or got underfoot. Or how Yondu’d locked him in storage closets as punishment until Peter worked out how to pick the locks, and _then_ , rather than taking that as a hint he should stop doing it, had started upgrading the security to give Peter more of a challenge, calling it part of his _training_ ; and then forgotten about him and left him with no food, water or toilet facilities for _two whole days_ … 

Compared to Gamora and Rocket though? Heck, Peter was _spoilt_. So when Raxxor starts snickering, he leans forwards with genuine curiosity. 

“I miss a joke?” 

“Aw, you weren’t _poached_ ,” Raxxor squeaks between his snorts. “You was _cargo_.” 

There’s a pause. “Isn’t that the same sort of thing?” Peter asks. But Raxxor’s shaking his head – 

“No. No! We was hired to get _you_ , see. You specifically. Not just any ol’ Terran brat. And it weren’t by the slavers neither. Someone was after lil’ Peter Jason Quill, and they’da paid a pretty bundle if we’d dropped you off.” He sniffles to himself. “Missed out on a helluva paycheque that day. Awful tragedy. But who’s gonna argue with the cap’n when he gets in one of his moods? Fuck, not even _Horuz_ dared call ‘im out on it, and that hairy git’s mouthier than _you_ …” 

Peter’s mouth runs dry. He glances at the other Ravagers. They’re all observing him over their glasses, and the words of Irani Rael sing through his mind – _not just Terran._ Of course. He’s something _else_. Something other, something unknown… 

_Star-lord._

Terran kid gets whisked away by aliens in the middle of the night? Alright. But _Half-_ Terran kid? That’s far too much of a coincidence. So, if he hadn’t been a random abduction for sport – meat, whatever… Then why had Yondu picked him up? Had he _known_? Or had somebody told him…? 

“Who?” Peter asks, voice a garble. “Who was it, Raxxor? Who hired you?” Raxxor swigs from his glass again. Peter could shake him. “Please! I need to know.” 

“Alright, alright. Lemme see if I can remember.” Raxxor’s horny brow ruckles. He presses a claw to the dent between his eyes, as if the pressure can burrow through and ignite the memory. “Uh – uh, some shiny dude. Cap’n was the only one who spoke t’him; he chased the rest of us off the bridge whenever he manifested. Musta been someone important, some sorta freaky celestial being, or something –“ 

Peter’s throat clenches. “An angel,” he whispers. Gamora squeezes his thigh under the table, although her outwards face remains stony and hostile. Raxxor snaps his fingers. Nods like a demented jack-in-the-box. 

“Yeah, yeah! An angel; that’s right. An angel made of light!” 

Peter thinks his head’s going to explode. And he hasn’t taken so much as a swig. 

“What is it?” asks Gamora. Her face is stony, but the eyes are soft and concerned. Peter has to swallow several times before he can reply – when he does, it’s a gravel husk. 

“My mother – before she died. She said my father would come for me. That he was an angel, and that he’d come to fetch me. Or he’d get someone else to.” 

There’s a collective silence. Drax considers, then slides over his drink. Peter tosses it back. The clack of the glass meeting the table makes them all jerk. 

“That bastard knew.” 

“Peter –“ says Gamora. 

“He fucking knew.” His hand clenches around the glass. A spiderweb of cracks screech out, etching into crystal that’s built to withstand being dropped, stomped on, and flung at a Kronan’s head. Rocket eyes it warily. 

“Uh, Pete? Y’might be squeezin’ a little hard there –“ 

“He fucking knew. I can’t fucking believe it.” 

Drax frowns. “Quill, my friend, are you alright? If this scum pirate has wronged you, I shall gladly rip his spine from his body -” Rocket’s paw closes on his thumb. 

“Uh, probably not wise, big guy.” 

Oblivious to the tension, Raxxor licks around the inside of his flute. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, and makes to stand. 

Peter’s fist closes. The glass smashes. 

“Quill!” 

“I am Groot!” 

“Peter! 

He shakes the shards away, noticing, somewhere in the back of his mind, that they’ve rained off his skin like water droplets rather than piercing in. Raxxor is starting to back away. Peter grabs him by the collar and hauls him close enough to mist breath over the glassy spines on his cheeks. “Where is he?” he growls. 

Raxxor meeps. “Who?” 

“Who do you think. Yondu.” 

Gamora stands, hands pressed flat against the table-top – “Quill, this is a very stupid idea.” 

“I agree with the whore,” says Drax. He can’t squeeze round the table, not with Rocket and Gamora in the way, and if he stands his muscular thighs will upend the damn thing. But he makes do with bulging scarified biceps and a hearty glower. Peter’d not intimidated though. Not when he’s had _this_ bombshell dropped on him – that his whole life, everything he’s been told, hasn’t just been random coincidence; but controlled, _ordained_ … And one Centaurian jackass holds the answers. 

Raxxor’s eyes take up his whole face. “Th’ boss is on the galleon, sir –“ 

“Take me to him. Now.” Gamora makes to step forwards, but Peter turns his chilling glare on her. “No. You stay.” He sees something shiver through her. Not fear, but… Worry? 

“Peter, your eyes are glowing,” she says. 

That’s the least of his problems. 

“Stay,” he reiterates. Looks at each of them in turn – Drax posturing, Rocket sneering, Groot withering in his pot. Then latches one arm around Raxxor’s thin neck, turns him bodily, and frogmarches him towards the docking bay. “Call your captain,” he says, as he slams the opening pad besides the M-ship ramp. “Tell him his Terran’s coming to visit.” 

________________________________________ 

Yondu’s not there when they dock. Peter figures he’s making the point that he’s got more important things to deal with. 

He ignores the greeting shouts – and the quiet inquiries as to if there’s still a bounty on his head, and whether they’ll be able to chip in on the cut if they knock him out and truss him up before delivering him to the boss. Raxxor’s M-ship winches along overhead. It’s eerie, being back here, if only because everything’s exactly as Peter remembers. He’s been gone – what, a year now? Yet swinging onto the ramp and dodging the Ravagers who try to ruffle his hair, he might as well have just docked in from an overdue snatch job. 

The hangar’s shaped like a vacuum cleaner nozzle; narrow towards the yawning gate and widening into a vast unloading and maintenance space behind. Makes it harder for enemy ships to dock without getting shot down, but also means there’s a couple of casualties every year from junior pilots high on the promise of their first solo, who gun their thrusters into the ass-end of the ship in front. 

The further into the hangar Peter walks, the busier it gets. M-ships cluster the ceiling denser than bats in a cave, each one buckled to a limb of the trundle-track that stretches from one side of the bunker to the other: a vast skyscape of grey metal clouds arranged in an interlocking grid. The grid lays parallel to the roof. Individual M-ship’s can be hoisted groundwards on their spider-string straps to sit at a half-mast for cleansing, or flush on the dock for repairs. There’s several of them dangling at the moment: dirty jewels dripping off the base of an ugly and industrial chandelier. Towards the end of the bay the grid angles steeply down, a runway that lets the M-ships build momentum before the harness releases and they’re catapulted through the forcefield and out into the void. 

“Lil’ Quill!” hollers Jax, smacking him on the shoulder. His squished-up lizard-like face is split into a smile that reveals more teeth than Kraglin’s. “Didn’t know you was comin’ back, boy!” 

Peter, staring straight ahead, shakes off the grip. Jax exchanges a look with Raxxor, who, sobriety increasing proportionally to proximity with the showdown he’s inadvertently enabled, scrunches his eyebrows in a desperate ‘help me’. 

“Uh. What ya doin’ here, Quill?” 

Jax is, as many of the Ravagers, an utter a-hole. Steal from the rich; steal from the poor; steal from a dead baby’s perambulator – it’s all the same to him. He’s as big a jerk as they come – so hearing him ask in that nervily polite tone should give Peter heebies all the way to his jeebies. But right now there’s only one emotion stuffing up Peter’s synapses. 

Cold-forged rage. 

“Looking for the captain,” he says, plastering on his best smile. “You wanna tell me where he is?” The charming effect – irresistible to Gravarian Duchesses and the like – is thrown by the star-white light streaming from his pupils. Jax takes a step to the rear. 

“Uh, Quill? Your eyes are kinda…” Peter grabs his forearm. His grip’s light, but for some reason, Jax’s muscular scale-toughened hide _gives_ , and Jax gasps in audible pain. “ _Fuck_ , Quill!” 

Peter doesn’t notice. Or can’t quite bring himself to care. “With a contractor?” Jax just goggles, futilely trying to twist his wrist to freedom. “In his cabin?” An imperceptible shake of the head. Peter’s smile is brittle. “On the bridge, then.” He doesn’t wait for Jax’s affirmation. Releases him to cradle his abused limb and marches away, Raxxor skittering on his heels. 

“Quill? Peter? Pete, ol’ buddy – I don’t think yer quite yerself right now. Wanna sit down for a bit, wait out this glowy thing, see how ya feel?” 

Ravagers peel out of his way, emptying the pipe-lined tract of corridor ahead. Peter storms for the cage-lift. He mashes the button for bridge-deck. The portcullis clatters closed, inches from Raxxor’s nose. 

“I’ll comm him,” the spiny man shouts, jigging in his boots as Peter cranks up the shaft. “I’ll comm him – and Kraglin, and Zqo. Just t’let ‘em know you’re coming!” 

And that he looks ready to murder, no doubt. 

Peter assesses the graduating strata of rust as the lift starts to accelerate. Orange to red to brown, to red again and burnished, dirty gold. Scorched pipes wind around the cage like ore veins through rock. There’s that old smell, the one which leached into the leather of his coat and boots and which can never quite be erased no matter how often Gamora insists he wash – congealing oil, metal grease, fuel fumes and ancient plumbing and body odor under leather. _Ravager._ He doesn’t notice it around his M-ship anymore. Must’ve been drowned out by other smells, new smells: Groot’s teething spores and Rocket’s overheating gun components and the wax that Gamora and Drax smear over their favourite knives to ward off the spacerust. Coming back to the _Eclector’s_ ripe halls is a nostalgic drown. 

The lift’s ascent begins to slow. Peter shuts his pulsing eyes and listens to the creak and clatter of chains above. He opens them to the grim red interior of the bridge level. And Kraglin’s pistol, which is levelled at his forehead. 

“Hi, Peter,” Kraglin says. “Welcome home.” 

Peter knows, with the instinct of a predator, that he could sweep him into the wall and snap his neck with a single scoop of his hand. 

He doesn’t. 

He clenches his fists and quashes the fire in him, pushing the broiling energy down, down, down until it’s as good as snuffed and the rage in his guts has nothing but itself to feed on. That’s potent enough, he tells himself. Whatever this new power is, wherever it’s come from – he doesn’t need it. He’s Peter goddam Quill. He can handle this alone. 

When he next blinks, his eyes are blue again. 

“You can quit sticking your pea-shooter up my nose. I ain’t here to kill him. Just wanna ask a question.” 

Kraglin narrows his eyes. Then relaxes. There’s a soft click as the plasma core in his pistol deactivates – then twenty more clicks from behind, as the bridge crew disengages with a unanimous sigh. Peter stares. 

“Uh, nice of you all to show up, but is this really necessary -?” 

Zqo, pistol propped on the substantial swell of a hip, snorts and tosses her head. Horuz crosses his arms and glowers. Oh, that look – Peter remembers that look. It’s an instant transportation back to when he had to look _up_ at the man rather than level; when Horuz had hissed that he was going to catch Peter while he was sleeping and feed him into the galley in chunks so that no one ever knew what had become of him, if he sang that blasted _Ooga-chaka_ one more time. This time though, Peter slices through the bluster and finds it hollow. Horuz’s posturing, but he doesn’t intend to hurt Peter. It takes him a moment longer to realise that it’s because Horuz doesn’t think he _could_. 

Peter swallows. “Where’s Yondu?” he asks. 

Kraglin’s still got that artfully calm set to his shoulders. His eyes are knife-glints, sharp as the blades Peter knows are tucked up his sleeves and pant-legs, ready to be whipped out and thrown at a moment’s notice. “Bridge,” is all he says. 

He leads the way. Peter, trotting on his heels, scans the newly wired lighting strips and raps his knuckles on a repaired wall panel that he doesn’t ever remember seeing unscratched. “Love what you’ve done with the place.” 

“We coulda done more if you hadn’t nicked our fuckin’ Infinity Stone.” 

Oh yeah. That. 

Peter could quail and change topic – or bristle and explain, for the thousandth-or-so-time, that when given a choice between entrusting the stone to the Nova Corps and entrusting it to _Yondu_ , no way was he letting the goddam Admiral of the Ravager Fleet waltz off to adorn his dash console with a weapon that could obliterate planets at a touch. But that’s not what he’s here to discuss. Not today. 

Peter sucks stale filtered air, and concentrates on maintaining his zen. It’s harder than usual – understandable, given the circumstances. But while he has every right to be angry, this fury feels… _different_. It’s hungry and bloodthirsty; he’s not sure he trusts it – and so, with the memory of Kraglin’s plasma pistol branded in his mind, he keeps it subdued. 

Yondu’s waiting for him on the bridge. He stands with his back to them, facing the stars. From his posture you’d think he was unconcerned – but his coat’s flipped over his arrow-holster, and that’s a tell so glaring that Peter’s almost awed by the fact that he’s the one who won it out of him. 

Had Yondu… Had he actually thought that Peter would…? 

Or, more concerning, that Peter _could?_

_Your eyes are glowing._

Peter’s nails dig into his palms. Just what the hell _is_ he? 

No time like the present to find out. 

“Yondu?” he says. 

Oh, he means it to come out harsh. Accusatory. He wants his words to shine a Nova-issued interrogation light on the captain, a blinding ray that’ll piece sneer and infuriatingly cocky grin alike. Wants to chip away the bravado and the awkward gruff affection and the lies; the lies which have accumulated over the years, drip by drip, like limescale around a faucet. 

_Picked you up ‘cause we fancied a snack. But I stopped ‘em eatin’ ya! If you don’t wanna be back on the menu, you’d better show some goddamn gratitude._

_Figured you ain’t so worthless after all. Might make a half-decent Ravager of ya, with training._

_No point running away, boy. You ain’t got no home left but here._

But his voice cracks. 

Peter’s a little kid again, bundled in an oversized red leather trenchcoat fished from the stinky bilges of the quartermaster’s store. His boots are so big he has to stuff the toes with his spare pair of socks so he doesn’t get blisters, and he almost trips over himself as he runs – runs to cling to Yondu’s legs, because he’s more scared of the cosmic storm battering itself against the bridge glass than the smack he’ll get for daring to show sentiment. 

He ran to Yondu. He always ran to Yondu. Because his mummy was dead, his grandfather was ten thousand light years away, and Peter hadn’t ever had a daddy. 

Yondu turns. His expression wavers. Just a fraction. 

“Why don’t y’all fuck off and give us a bit o’privacy?” The words are addressed to Kraglin. But his gaze doesn’t stray from Peter; it’s a crimson anchor. The arrow at his belt might as well have pinned his foot to the deck. 

Kraglin opens his mouth as if to argue. Then snaps it shut. “C’mon,” he mutters to Zqo. They peel away, Horuz and the rest filing out into the corridor after. The clunk of the heavy iron pressure-lock reverberates through Peter’s bones. 

And then they’re alone. 

Yondu turns to him fully, and readjusts his coat over the arrow. “What d’you want, boy?” he asks. 

There’s no storm this time. No silently roaring hurricane that grates the _Eclector’s_ flanks with comet debris and plasma and burning ice-dust. In fact, there’s nothing for lightyears; outside the bridge, space is a frigid desert, empty except for the far-off flash of a quasar at the galaxy’s edge. They’re far-out. Beyond the Nova systems but not quite into Skrullspace. A No-Man’s Land of outlaws and bandits, a void populated only by those who have nowhere else to go. The fleet ships are red buoys in an endless sea, and the gushing glittering tides of that cosmic storm are buried in the past, as harmless as the distant stars. 

But Peter still sees them pounding on the glass. The urge to hide his face in a red leather coat is eating him away from the inside. 

He swallows. “My father,” he croaks. “You knew him.” 

He already knows it’s true. But hearing it from Yondu’s mouth still aches worse than the customary sucker-punch that the captain dishes out for bad behaviour – 

“Yeah, I knew him. Jackass.” 

“Who was he?” He grew into his boots years ago - even had to upgrade to a larger size. These are fitted and worn to the contours of his feet, but Peter still stumbles over them as he lurches onto the observation plinth. Yondu watches his approach with stolid blankness. 

“Nobody you wanna know.” 

And hell no. _Hell no_. He is not getting away with that. 

In an instant, the power’s back – it gushes from deep inside, like Peter’s ruptured a vessel and is bleeding white-hot fury. He’s burning with it, combusting. It spills from his eyes and his mouth and his nostrils – fuck, if Yondu makes _one crack_ about the sun shining out his ass… 

Everything’s moving in slow motion. Peter’s lips peel back from his teeth. He crosses the last two steps to Yondu before the man’s eyes can widen, before he can fling up an arm or whistle his arrow to defend himself… 

Peter punches him in the face. 

His aim, unaccustomed to the sudden surge in speed, is off. Rather than cracking Yondu square in the nose like he’d intended, Peter’s fist glances off his jaw. It’s just as effective. Yondu’s head snaps to the side, skull clonking the glass behind him, and he staggers against it with a bloody gasp. 

“Quill –“ 

“Who was he?!” Peter’s hauls him up by the collar of his shirt. The fabric grains start to separate, clenched in his too-strong hands. Yondu’s squinting at a patch over his shoulder, as if he still expects Peter to be there, and his brows’re crunched with confusion as well as pain when he relocates to the man pinning him against the glass. 

“When’d you get so nippy on yer feet, boy?” 

“I _said_ , who _was_ he?” Peter shakes Yondu, smacking his head off the window again – he wins a wince and a sneer – then _lifts_ until his captain’s boots can’t scrape the ground. “Who. Was. He.” 

Yondu, to his annoyance, seems unperturbed to be dangling between Peter’s fists and the _Eclector’s_ Bridge window. His feet kick a bit, bracing against Peter’s shins – but he doesn’t bother to try and worm his way out of the deadlocked hold. Just rubs the smarting base of his implant and scowls, before clicking his jaw into place. The hand gripping Peter’s wrist doesn’t quest for a pressure point, or attempt a wrench-and-snap – and when Yondu looks at him, his eyes are dulled with an unspeakable seriousness. 

“Trust me. You don’t wanna know.” 

Trust him? _Trust him?_

Peter kneads his knuckles into Yondu’s chest. The power’s waning with his fury, and the Centaurian is growing heavier with every passing second – but Peter needs this. 

“I’ve got to. Yondu, please – I’ve got to.” 

Yondu waits until Peter’s biceps are trembling. Then pinches the nerve in his wrist, dropping to deck with a thud. 

“You ain’t gonna thank me for tellin’ ya,” he says quietly. 

Ugh. That is just _so typical_. Of course he’s not going to thank him – but seeing as Yondu’s the guy who abducted him in the first place, who kept him from his rightful father, he doesn’t _deserve_ Peter’s thanks. Not now. Not ever. 

“He can’t be worse than you,” Peter says. 

He’d knocked a tooth loose when he punched him. Yondu works it out the throbbing socket, fishing for the splintered root with his tongue. Then spits it to clink off the console panel to their right. He smears blue blood off his chin and onto his sleeve, and doesn’t look at Peter again. 

“You’re sure,” he says. As if he even needs to ask. 

Peter folds his arms, grasping the scuffed leather sleeves to stop the tremble. He jerks out a nod. This new power bursts brighter than a supernova then leaves him wracked and shaken, unsteady on his feet. It’s almost tempting to keep engaging it, keep nurturing it, feed it higher and higher with hatred, see how deep the rabbit-hole goes. But something stops him. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that, as awful as Yondu’s parenting skills were, he doesn’t deserve that. Perhaps it’s the fear that once he starts down that path, he’ll return from it changed – or he won’t return at all. 

Yondu examines the blood on his sleeve like it’s the focal centre of the room. Or else he’s looking beyond it. At somewhere – _someone_ – long ago. 

“There was an angel,” he begins. Voice scratching deep in his throat. The words almost sound painful, forced from his mouth like another dozen bloodstained broken teeth. “An angel made of light.” 

Those words are destined to follow him, it seems. Peter swallows hard. 

“My father,” he states. But Yondu’s shaking his head. 

“A messenger. Servant, if ya like. Astral projection – teleportation. Freaky cosmic shit.” He rolls his shoulders – Peter can see bruises dappling through the tears in his shirt from where he’d grabbed him, purple and angry, but can’t bring himself to be sorry. He comes to stand besides Yondu so they can stare out into the bleak and desolate abyss and pretend they’re talking to anyone but each other. 

“He came to my mother too, I think. The messenger – she thought he was my father.” Wasn’t there that old story, the one grandpa told? Peter had to fidget through it every Christmas before he was allowed to rip into the presents under the needle-shedding tree. But whatever this creature was, it hadn’t been no angel. He’s sure of that now. Yondu’s harsh laugh confirms it. 

“I shoulda known. That jackass’s too lazy to lift his ass off his goddam throne. If he can’t fetch his own damn gemstones, why should he create his own fuckin’ son?” 

Peter glances at him in the reflection. He finds Yondu glaring into the void, bitter smile on his face but none in his eyes. “What d’you mean?” 

Yondu continues as if he hasn’t heard – “Probably had that slimy creep chat her up all nicelike, make her _fall in love_ just so she’d agree to have the seed planted inside –“ 

And it all comes together. 

Throne. Jackass. Servant who did his every bidding. The certainty is growing inside Peter, a mote of rot that steadily corrodes. But – but – he needs to hear it. He needs to _know._

“Tell me,” he breathes, although his entire being rebels. It can’t be true – there has to be mistake. He’s jumping to conclusions; he’s silly Peter, Peter the Terran, dumb little Peter who crawls into the vent ducts when he’s sad and lonely and scared and gets himself stuck, so Yondu has to dismantle half his fucking ship to fish him out again, and then he’s so hungry and terrified that he bursts into tears as soon as his captain starts to yell at him for _being so fuckin’ stupid, I thought you’d died, next time I’ll leave ya there you little shit._ Even though he knows it’s all lies. That Yondu’s mean and he’s grumpy and he can be as cold as he is cruel; but he’ll never, ever leave him. 

Yondu sneers at the quasar, blazing its nonsensical semaphore across the distant stars. 

“Thanos. You’re Thanos’s fuckin’ kid. There. You happy now?” 

No. He’s as far from happy as he could ever be. 

Peter’s eyes are hot. Rubbing the tears away takes too much effort, so he drops his chin to his chest and lets them fall. He’s mourning for a mother too gullible and hopeful and loving, duped by an alien god. For the little boy who’d believed her, but who’d been too scared to take her hand. When Rael had told him he wasn’t human, Peter had hoped to be something special, something _better_. He was Star-lord, right? Guardian of the Goddamn Galaxy. He was freaking awesome. 

But this? _Thanos?_ He’s son to a monster. An abomination… 

Yondu watches him from the corner of his eye. 

“You ain’t nothing like that jackass,” he says. He sounds so firm that Peter almost believes him. “C’mon. How many times did I have t’chew you out over _sentiment_ , back when you was running with us? You were a soft brat then, and you’re a soft brat now.” His lips twitch up. “Shoulda let ‘em eat ya when I had the chance.” 

Peter squeezes his eyes tight shut and pinches his nose to stifle the sob. 

He hears Yondu sigh – “Aw heck.” 

A hand swings towards him. Peter flinches, expecting a smack. None comes. Yondu grabs him round the back of the neck and roughly manhandles him into a hug. 

It’s – well, Peter’s not gonna lie. It’s kinda awkward. 

Last time Yondu’d given into frustration and tried this tactic of stopping the waterworks (as opposed to more favoured methods of bawling Peter out, cuffing him round the ears, or dragging him to an airlock and threatening to eject his Walkman until Peter clammed up through willpower alone) Peter’d been eleven years old and hiding from the storm. 

When his collision with Yondu’s legs had been rejected with a hearty kick, Peter had curled under the table with his hands over his headphone-bound ears, an extra layer to block the juddering rattle of plates and rivets as the _Eclector_ suffered buffet after buffet. The crew had filtered out, heading to their stations. They’d ignored the whimpers, as Peter convinced himself that the galleon would be ripped apart and they’d all be sucked out to fizzle and fry. 

Yondu had waited until the last man had gone. Peter can see him now: silhouetted against the blazing flashes of radiation as they were blasted from the heart of the dying star. He’d looked intimidating – moreso than usual – and Peter had anticipated either a thorough tongue-lashing or a more thorough literal one. But when the last witness had left and the lock had clicked to, and Yondu had gotten on his knees and dragged Peter out, there had been no words. No taunts. Yondu’d just sat and held him until Kraglin stumbled onto the bridge shouting about a pressure leak in the engines, and Peter had been too scared to protest. 

Back then he’d been small and skinny. Defenseless. The storm had been a helluva lot bigger than he was. The bright lights and unearthly noise had brought home the terrifying reality of being bounced about space in a rickety red tin can - oh yeah, he’d been a Terran brat alright. Had scarcely found his space-legs. But he’d been a Terran brat with Titan blood – and Yondu had known, even if nobody else had, and Yondu had held him anyway. 

He’s not a kid anymore. In fact, he’s as big as Yondu; possibly (although he’d never suggest it out loud) an inch taller. His captain’s body fits uncomfortably against him, and there’s an arrow tip digging into his hip. 

“That a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” jokes Peter feebly. Yondu snorts and swats the back of his head. 

“Damn brat,” he says. It sounds grouchy, and more than a little tired. But Yondu doesn’t release him. Tentatively, Peter lifts his arms to return the embrace. 

The Ravager-smell from the lift is stronger here. As if it’s concentrated into Yondu’s person. Peter buries his face in his captain’s shoulder and wonders if this is what home feels like. 

“Sir!” The bridge gate slams open and Kraglin stumbles in, Mohawk mussed and blaster at the ready. “Sir, the Guardians of the Galaxy have docked in our port and are holding the East Hangar hostage until we return Quill – uh, sir?” 

Peter and Yondu spring apart. Stare at each other. Stare at Kraglin, whose gawp is morphing into a poorly disguised smirk. 

“We,” says Yondu dangerously, “was havin’ a moment.” 

Kraglin’s mouth sets up a furious spasm. “Sorry cap’n,” he says. Yondu lets the pause mature. Then rolls his eyes and stomps past his first mate, coat snapping on his calves. 

“C’mon Quill!” he calls over his shoulder. “Let’s get ya back to yer crew before they blow up my fuckin’ ship.” 

Quill smiles, wipes his eyes, and follows.

**Author's Note:**

>  **So this was mixed in with another prompt from gotgkink, which I didn’t include at the beginning for spoiler-y reasons. Here it is -**  
>  ****  
> Peter finds out that Yondu knew his father was and gets angry. He confronts the head of the Ravagers, demanding that Yondu tell him. Yondu warns Peter not to get his hopes up and Peter angrily retorts that, whoever he is, his father can’t be worse than Yondu. Turns out, his father’s Thanos.
> 
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> **As usual for a prompt fill, this is barely-edited and quickly rattled off, so do point out mistakes if you find them! xxx Hope y’all enjoy.**
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> ****


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